(2017/ April, 3 years after my sister’s death). Now, I share.
My sister sent me a short story she wrote just months before her life was stolen from us. I hid it. I did not share it. She sent it to me, and me alone; it is mine. I am selfish, I admit. I did not dare to open the wounds of her friends, my sisters and brothers by sharing her writing, after her sudden, startling departure for heaven.
In my exile, I read her lovely well written story once a week as a ritual of self-torture, and a reminder of her lovely face and precious smile. I could not cry the day she was killed, not until now. But as I read her words, my dry tears became like shattered pieces of heavy glass and spiked metal, falling like a waterfall from heaven into my heart. This is how I wept for her, and still do.
I am sorry that I could not share that beauty of writing and pain. It belongs to me, and me alone. Yes, I am selfish for choosing to go through this alone in silence.